I guess it’s safe to say this out loud now: I have lost a friend. To say it out loud is a great admittance — a real acceptance of loss. All these years that I’ve suspected this loss, suspicion lay in my heart. For it to lie there meant it was in the domain of feeling and therefore “unreliable.” To say it out loud means that it has moved to my mind, where lies knowledge and consciousness. I can say now with both mind and heart: I have lost a friend.
There’s not much out there to help me navigate this loss. We have rules for other losses. When we lose objects, for example, we are asked: “When and where did you lose it?” We either return to the place where it was last seen, and look again calmly (or in panic, depending on the importance of the loss); or we go to other places that may store lost items. If it cannot be found, the choice becomes simple: we replace the object. Sure, we are irritated by such losses and yet they are still easier to accept because we know that, at the end of the day, these are merely objects.
Far more structured is the loss brought about by death. As death is the clearest, most final loss, it also has the clearest rules. There is a body to dispose of. There is a wake to survive. There is food to be served. There are letters to be answered. There are things to be put away. We have been guided, by example, on what to do to survive death. In this, too, we have very little choice: we bury our dead and swallow our grief.
I have a suspicion that we don’t know what to do when we lose a friend because we presume it is not as serious a loss. We think to ourselves, well, just find another friend! I understand now that that’s ridiculous and that we are naïve. To lose a friend is to lose an ally, to lose history, to lose companionship, to lose a faithful mirror; I daresay, to lose a part of oneself.
Three questions, then. Why do we need friends? How do we lose friends? And what can one do when one loses a friendship?
The first question is perhaps the easiest. We take it for granted that friendships are natural. We don’t always see that friendships are prerequisites to learning love. As in love, friendship requires recognition — acquiescence that there is something about the other that you like. It can be as simple as liking the same music, or the same books. After the initial recognition, it is the sustenance that becomes the challenge. How do we remain friends in the midst of our differences? How can I accommodate you in my busy life? How much of you can I accept? How much of me must I hide? How happy can I be for you?
That negotiation is crucial to healthy development. He who has good friends will perhaps find it easier to manage marriage, as good marriages are patterned after good friendships. And because good friendships are not contractual or formally ritualized, the friendships that we keep, I argue, are also quite sacred.
There are many wonderful things about friendship. There’s great conversation and exhilarating debates. Why are these conversations and debates so much more fun than those in marriage? Simply because there’s less expectation. We can argue for hours, but I don’t have to live with you! The fact that there are endings to coffee, to dinner, to a movie, gives friendships a freedom that cannot be found in marriage. The space between us allows us time to value the other and to look forward to seeing each other.
Speaking of freedom, without the complication of love and sexual tension and chemistry, friendships with the opposite sex promise a level of authenticity that’s crucial as one gets older. With real friends, I can eat soup, a salad, an entrée (or two), dessert and coffee and not have to apologize. I can cry like a baby and not have to hide. I can be angry as hell and it will not be held against me. I can be weak and not pretend that I’ll be okay. I can be who I am in no relation to you (unlike in marriage where everything about me is about you and so my unhappiness can be taken as caused by spouse). The distance between us is what sets us apart and allows friends to appreciate each other. This is versus what distance is in marriage where it can be a bad thing because it can become a measurement of the estrangement between us.
For me, the most wonderful thing about having a friend, and being a friend, is the sense that I am an archivist in some way. A friend of mine has been given the gift to remember for me who I am and who I wanted to be. A couple of months ago, I bumped into my best friend from Grade 6. She said, “You finally published your book!” I stood there, in awe that she remembered. I stood there in awe that I had forgotten. I felt so reassured of the path I had taken because someone had remembered what it was I wanted even if I myself had forgotten.
How many times have we said of a friend, “She’s no longer the person I know”? Because that’s what good friends do — they take spirit pictures of us. If I were to lose my way, all I would have to do is call an old friend and ask, “Who am I again?”
Friendships end for a number of reasons. Sometimes it’s as painful as betrayal; and sometimes it’s as simple as just not having enough time to nurture the friendship. Even here, maybe Darwin has the answer to why some friendships must die: the survival of the fittest. Only the strongest of friendships will last. Perhaps some friendships do not last forever, with good reason.
In my case, it is silence that has caused the loss. Like the good friend that I am, I send missives, keep my friend updated on who I have become. I invite my friend to witness my life still. I wave a flag from my tiny island to prove that I am still alive. But there is no word from the other land where my friend now resides. I see myself flashing a red flag in earnest. But nothing and no one waves back.
What, then, to do to survive losing a friend? I guess there are the usual palliatives — coffee with new friends? A good book as it rains outside my window? Solitude is a good companion; at least there is no one to disagree with. Children and husband are good archivists, too. And then there’s work and work and work.
And perhaps there is still another choice: to have faith in the strength of one’s friendship; to believe that the other has not forgotten and perhaps is only waylaid. I can wait in anticipation and hope that this distance between us will make us better friends and, if not, then believe that what has transpired between us has value on its own and that to have had that is gift enough. After all, part of friendship is trust.
This is a prayer I learned when I was young. An old friend, now lost, taught it to me. She used to say, in parting, “May God be between us, while we are apart.” I know now, finally, what that means.
* * *
You may reach me at Rica.Santos@gmail.com.